


Little Red

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied Relationships, M/M, Watersports, Werewolf Sex, considerably more no than yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: When you lie down with wolves, you learn to howl.





	Little Red

**Author's Note:**

> [Listen, I had to do something.](https://78.media.tumblr.com/b93d22d2bd81577779057654a185fe0c/tumblr_inline_oy1px54fs11rudvwg_540.png) Happy Halloween!

After seven years, John should know better. 

It’s just, he could have sworn the moon was waxing, or waning, and the noise at the door could’ve been anything, one of the dogs wanting back in or particularly hammered teammate—

The first he sees when he opens the door is coarse, copper-tinted hair, spreading over a wide chest and then still going, down a thick core and double-bent legs, the only bare thing a blood red—  

“Oh, shit,” John yelps, tries to slam the door shut, but it’s too late. An animal snarl cuts through his ears as the door is shoved right back open, strong enough to make him fall back against the stair railing. The thing—a werewolf, John knows all about werewolves,  _ he should have known— _ stalks in through the the doorway, hunched like standing on two legs isn’t quite natural but still with a lethal grace, predator instincts turning him back towards John in an instant. 

The snarl drops, pink tongue still panting.

Braden always has strong features. It makes sense that they carry over like this; it’s not like he’s that much more hairy, honestly.

John pushes himself back over the railing. He has a silver rosary, some monkshood, somewhere, he just needs to get to it—

Braden is on the stairs before John’s legs clear the top bar, growling deep as John falls against his chest. His arms are like iron across John’s shoulders, his stomach. Just a hint of sharp pin pricks against soft skin.

He’s warmer like this, and the hair is softer than John expected. Better than the beard, at least. There’s a quiet moment, with John’s head against Braden’s jack-rabbit heart, but then he squeezes John even tighter and lets out a low rumble that John can feel in his bones, starts dragging him up the stairs, clawed feet against dark wood.

There’s something hard poking against John’s leg, and there’s blood pounding in his head.

Some part of Braden must still recognize John’s bedroom, because that’s where he takes him, right past a perfectly serviceable floor to drop John in his unmade sheets. Maybe it’s the scent; he hasn’t washed them recently, and Braden had said, when he could—

Rough palms push up the back of John’s shirt, frantic, too clumsy to get it off, catching on John’s skin until he pulls it off himself. Then, after John calculates the pros and cons, shifts to tug down the elastic of his sweats. Braden growls deep for a moment, long fingers wrapping around John’s arms, until he sees what John’s doing.

He doesn’t let go. A low rumble—a happy one?— and Braden’s leaning back. John holds his breath, thinks maybe Braden just wants them to be matching, in their natural state.

A rough snout pushes against his ass, pressing deep and  _ breathing.  _ John yelps, tries to climb further up the bed automatically, but Braden tightens his grip on him, pulls him back as that tongue pushes up against him, tacky and long.

It feels so  _ inhuman,  _ the prickling of Braden’s honest-to-god whiskers, soft everywhere else, all the sharp edges that keep catching on John and sending blood-hot sparks through him. It doesn’t take as much as it should, maybe, for John to relax enough for that tongue to slip into him, wetting him up, slobber dripping down from the huffing laps Braden’s taking at his hole.

Braden leans back eventually, and it shouldn’t be surprising when something solid, tipped at the end but  _ thick, _ god, so much more than when Braden’s just  _ Braden, _ can feel it every time Braden doesn’t quite make it in, sliding agitated over the small of John’s back.

It shouldn’t—John shouldn’t be grateful when that monster catches right against his hole, when Braden finally growls and claws out space for himself in John, settling deep like he belongs there. Once he’s in, Braden just stops, panting. John wants to look back at him, but he wonders knowing and feeling and  _ seeing  _ would be that step too far, that John let Braden in when he knows he wasn’t supposed to—

John admits he doesn’t know that much about this part of being a werewolf. How they fuck. Doesn’t think twice about the almost-soothing hands on his back, the barely there thrusts Braden is making even though it feels like a lot, too much, a wet warm pressure building in John like Braden’s come already, making him squirm and widen his hits. Maybe he leaks a lot like this.

Except, then Braden slides out, and the  _ smell  _ hits John, sour and familiar. It’s Braden’s piss flowing out of John’s hole, down the insides of legs. That, of all things, seems to be what finally drains that edge from Braden like this, still more animal than man but content, grumbling happily against the nape of John’s neck as he works his still-hard cock back inside, pressing John into the wet spot seeping into his bed.  _ God. _

It’s too much, feels like he’s cramping even before Braden burrows into him, hitches his legs up, that swell that’s almost familiar but so much bigger like this making John break out in cold sweat, everything below his belly button trembling.

Braden’s wet nose is at the joint of John’s neck and his shoulder, and for one moment, he almost thinks Braden might kiss him, any way he can like this, but instead sharp teeth cut in, pinning John in place from the back and the front until there’s nothing left for him to do but howl.

 

* * *

 

Like most night-after’s, Braden’s lethargic the next morning, not bothering to get out of bed until John’s made a big, bleeding breakfast for the both of them.

“Sorry about—” Braden waves a piece of bacon in the air, as he swallows down the last of the sausage he’d been chewing. “Everything, last night.”

“You didn’t even make me come,” John accuses. They’re in the kitchen, as opposed to their usual routine, but he can tell the scent is still clinging to him from the way Braden won’t stop eying him, his neck.

Braden just smiles, sharp little canines poking out as he says, “Don’t fuck dogs if you’re looking for courtesy.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [porn+writing blog](http://bauerbump.tumblr.com)


End file.
